


The Shades Souls Of Vermillion Stars

by liminalumi



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Blood God Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Deity AU of a sort, Gen, How Do I Tag, Personification of the color red, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), but like not really?, i might make this into a series, no beta we die like gods, so much blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29893863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liminalumi/pseuds/liminalumi
Summary: They are eternal, but not immortal.It’s not a prophecy or a promiseIt’s merely a connection, forged in blood and pain and life.How ironic it is, then, that the colors of death dance amid their shadows and drip from their blades.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	The Shades Souls Of Vermillion Stars

His is an existence borne of spilt blood, of the dying breaths of a deity.

He is the crimson flowing in the veins of mortals; the reddish tint of battlegrounds in wartime.

He is the rush of battle, and he is the pounding of fear in your ears.

He’s not quite mortal, not quite Faerie, but something else entirely.

After all, Gods can bleed, Gods can die, but they never truly  _ end. _

He’s as old as time, but the first thing he remembers is red. Brilliant crimson, crisp and metallic, filling his vision; drowning his thoughts. Blossoms of it against soft snow, burrowing into his skin and soaking his soul and calling for more and more and  _ more .  _

So he provides, and when the color becomes a sound becomes a voice becomes a chant, he listens.

He wanders. Where he goes, red follows. It clings to him, like a shadow; it is as much a part of him as he is of it. It splashes his tusks and dampens his fur, and there’s never enough, and it’s  so _much_ _. _

The world is cruel. 

He finds a child, an infant, in the towering trees and soft snow.

He looks at it, and it at him, and there’s  blue, in it’s eyes. 

He reaches for it, and if he can grab it, if he can take that color, maybe the red will leave him be.

He has it, he has the blue, and he clutches it, holds it tightly—

And then the child is gone, and the blue is gone, and the Red is back.

Did it ever really leave?

He stops chasing other colors, after that, stops searching for a way to drown out the Red, because it always, _always,_ comes back. 

He meets Phil, somewhere along the way, and hesitates.

Hesitates to kill, to maim, to spill that glistening, accursed Red.

And Phil—

Phil is a frosted lake, is the calm patch of water between raging seas, is the eye of a hurricane.

Phil is controlled, on the surface. He’s the deceptive first impression, the calm before the storm. 

He is what Techno is not. What he hasn’tever been, until their meeting. Phil is restraint, and Techno is impulse; only, they aren’t. 

Techno’s bloodlust isn’t impulse, Phil’s calm isn’t restraint. 

They’re two sides of the same coin, twin swords poised to strike.

Perhaps, that’s why he stays. 

They travel, for a while. It’s an unspoken agreement, their wandering. Techno doesn’t see Phil as a friend, not really. 

But he doesn’t look at him in horror, when he comes back to camp drenched in Red, night after night.

So Techno stays.

On calm nights, Phil soars. He leaves the fire to Techno, who can only watch as raven feathers spread, as he launches into the air. 

He ascends, higher and higher, until he’s merely a speck of starlight, until Techno can only catch glimpses of him from the ground.

It’s mesmerizing, not unlike a bolt of lightning, and those on the ground can do little more than watch in awe.

They linger in colder areas. Like their companionship, it happens naturally. Phil’s wings turn white, their feathers laden with down. They’re warm, Techno knows; warm enough to combat the raging blizzards that come with the season. 

In the summer, they’re a deep black, the comforting darkness of the void.

Techno watches their hues shift in the firelight, wondering how a being as deadly as Phil can carry such beauty in his wings. 

Phil is like him, or as close as anyone he’s met so far has come. 

Maybe that’s why Techno finds his eyes straying to the antlers that sit proudly atop his head, twisting and sturdy, like redwood trees. Since they met, they’ve been decorated. Silver bands adorn their prongs, vibrant jewels hang from thin chains like willow branches. They glow, almost, taking on an otherworldly quality in the twilight; they’re akin to Will ‘o the Wisps, leading passerby to danger. 

He asks about them, one day, when they’ve wandered for a mortal lifetime. Techno finds himself painting the snow with scarlet watercolors, and then Phil is there, a gentle hand resting on his arm. 

There is Red on him, there is Red on his green. It pulls Techno out of the haze.

His vision clears, and the gems come into focus, and he asks what they are, what they  mean . 

Phil just laughs, and his smile is sad.

_ They’re my friends, mate. _

It happens years later. Techno finds an emerald, and it’s green, and Phil is green. It’s dark, and small, and it’d look splendid on a silver chain, so he holds on to it. 

He gives the emerald to Phil. He examines it, watching how it catches the light of their fire, and tucks it into his bag. 

And they carry on, because really, it’s just a rock, and Phil doesn’t know the importance of it’s color, and Techno can’t expect it to change anything.

He almost doesn’t notice when the gem shows up among Phil’s, days later; it’s only the golden chain it’s dangling from that draws his attention to it. 

Techno thinks that maybe,  _ just maybe, _ he liked the gift.

It isn’t until an identical emerald shows up in his bag, along with a white feather, that he  _ understands . _

He doesn’t have antlers to adorn, or ears to piece, so he hangs it around his neck, where it sits close to his heart.

If Phil notices, he never says anything. He doesn’t need to. It’s an answer, should either of them question; a conversation in a single gesture, one best met with silence. 

They carry on that way, for centuries, because they can speak with a glance. 

Techno is the graceful dance of a blade, Phil is the controlled chaos of a tempest; They are two sides of the same coin, and they will remain so, until the end of time. 

If Gods can bleed, Gods can die.

But then, they never really were Gods, were they?

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Writing something I’m proud of? It’s more likely than you think.


End file.
